Five Time the Headmaster of Hogwarts Drank Firewhiskey, & One Time
by Susan M. M
Summary: Five Time the Headmaster of Hogwarts Drank Firewhiskey, and One Time ... From 1981 to 2013, one office, four headmasters and headmistresses, six firewhiskeys.


**Standard Fanfic Warning** that wouldn't last ten seconds in a court of law: these aren't my characters. This isn't my setting. Only the words are mine. Based on characters and situations created by J. K. Rowling in her inimitable Harry Potter books (and if they're so inimitable, why do so many of us keep trying?) I am merely building sand castles on J. K. Rowling's beach and will return her characters unarmed (albeit slightly hungover) when I am done with them. This story was originally published in the fanzine End of the Rainbow #3, from Neon Rainbow Press.

 **Five Time the Headmaster of Hogwarts Drank Firewhiskey, and One Time ...**

by Susan M. M.

based on characters and situations created by J. K. Rowling

 **November 1, 1981**

"Come in," Albus Dumbledore called out.

The door to the headmaster's office opened. Severus Snape and Minerva McGonagall entered the room.

"Headmaster, please tell me that Professor McGonagall is mistaken," Snape implored. He was a young wizard, clad in black robes that were too severe for a man in his early twenties.

"If it makes you happy, Severus, I could, but I would probably be fibbing. Minerva is generally accurate," Dumbledore noted.

"She said," the dark-haired potions instructor paused, as if he had to force himself to say the next words, "that you have entrusted Lily Potter's orphan son to her sister."

Dumbledore nodded. "Petunia Dursley is Harry's aunt, his nearest blood-relative. And she has a son who is only a month or two older than Harry."

"I knew Petunia as a child, sir. She was a very disagreeable girl," Snape said.

"People grow up, Severus. They mature." Dumbledore reached for an elaborately carved cabinet behind his desk. He opened it, and it folded out to a fully stocked wet bar. "I am going to have a firewhiskey to celebrate the survival of the Boy-Who-Lived. May I pour you one?"

McGonagall, a middle-aged witch, shook her head.

Dumbledore pointed his wand at the cabinet. Two shotglasses and a bottle of firewhiskey flew out. He pointed his wand again, and the bottle poured itself. One glass levitated to Snape.

"Perhaps you would prefer a madeira, Minerva?"

"If you insist." As he poured her drink, she continued, "I think you are making a mistake, Albus, a very serious mistake, in leaving Harry with the Dursleys."

"There are no bonds stronger than bonds of blood. Harry is her nephew." Dumbledore took a slow sip of Blishen's Single-Malt Firewhiskey. "Petunia will take care of him, for her sister's sake."

"But to have him raised by Muggles, blood kin or not," Professor McGonagall protested.

"It is better by far that the child not be raised with all this fuss going to his head. He can have a normal childhood with a Muggle family. Surely that is more important, not to mention far better in the boy's best interests, than to have him fostered with the Weasleys or the Diggorys or the Vances?" asked Dumbledore. "Besides, there is an advantage to having him stay with his aunt beyond avoiding having him be a spoiled brat with a swelled head. 'For the blood is the life'," he quoted.

"Leviticus," McGonagall identified the quotation automatically. Her mother was a witch. Her father had been a Muggle, a Presbyterian minister.

"There is power in shared blood," Dumbledore continued, almost under his breath.

"Blood-wards," Snape realized. "You're using blood-wards to protect the boy."

Dumbledore nodded.

"James Potter was an only child," Snape bit back the temptation to add 'thank goodness,' "but surely he had cousins. Are there no paternal relations who could take the boy in?"

McGonagall asked, "What about his Figalilly relations? James' aunt, or was she his cousin?, emigrated to America and married a Muggle mathematician."

"The Boy-Who-Lived raised in America?" Dumbledore raised one bushy eyebrow. "The ministry would have a fit. "

* * *

 **October 31, 1988**

Millicent Bagnold, Minister of Magic, sat in the headmaster's office. "It was a wonderful Halloween Feast, Albus. The students seemed to enjoy it very much."

"Yes, they did, they did." Dumbledore reached behind his desk and opened the elaborately carved cabinet. "Seven years ago today that Harry Potter survived Voldemort's attempt on his life."

Minister Bagnold shuddered at the name Dumbledore spoke so casually.

"I am going to have a firewhiskey. May I offer you one?"

She shook her head. "No, my Healer won't allow me anything stronger than pumpkin juice."

"I have that, too." Dumbledore poured a firewhiskey for himself and a glass of pumpkin juice for his guest (and former pupil). "On anniversaries like this, especially, I think of Harry. How he must be growing, what games he plays, what he's learning."

"Eight. Learning cursive, I should imagine, and times tables." Bagnold sipped her pumpkin juice.

"Probably having the occasional bout of accidental magic. When he does, his aunt probably sits down and tells him about Hogwarts and his parents. She wanted to attend, you know." Dumbledore stroked his beard; he remembered having to break the news to Petunia Evans that she would be unable to attend Hogwarts with her sister. She'd been jealous at the time, but Dumbledore was sure she had long since gotten over that.

"I wish you would let me set Aurors in Little Whinging to guard the boy. Just in case." Bagnold took another sip of her pumpkin juice, and wished she dared ask for something stronger.

"I wish I dared look in on the lad myself, but doing so might attract unwanted attention. Voldemort is down but not out, and his some of his followers are still loose. Anonymity will keep Harry safer than a squad of Aurors. " Dumbledore lifted his glass. "To Harry."

"Harry Potter," the Minister of Magic agreed.

* * *

 **April 2, 1996**

Dolores Umbridge muttered words under her breath that no ladylike witch would admit to knowing, let alone using. How dare those gargoyles keep her out of the headmaster's office! She was headmistress of Hogwarts now; that made it her office, and those misbegotten, er, miscarven stone monstrosities had no right to bar her from her own office.

She entered the office that had been assigned to her as Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts and High Inquisitor. The sight of her collection of hand-painted china, decorated with the most cutesy-wutesy adorable kittens, helped her ground and center. She set about brewing a pot of tea. The familiar chore settled her nerves. She poured a half-cup of tea, then added a healthy dollop of Fronsac's Finest Firewhiskey to fill the cup up to the brim.

She drained the cup quickly, and poured herself another. This time there was more firewhiskey - which she kept purely for medicinal purposes - than tea. "Headmistress of Hogwarts," she toasted herself. "Now we'll see some improvements around here."

Cornelius Fudge could not help but notice her now, now that she was in charge of administering and correcting the education of the nation's youth. Truly notice her.

And then, once he realized what was in front of his face, maybe Cornelius would leave his drudge of a wife and ...

The third teacup held no tea at all.

* * *

 **June 19, 1996**

Firewhiskey was not intended for breakfast. But after the night he'd had, Albus Dumbledore needed it. Sirius, dead. Harry, hurt and angry. Lucius and his crew, arrested. Cornelius, an idiot, or rather, more of an idiot than usual. Dumbledore was only a few weeks shy of his one hundred and fifteenth birthday, and right now he felt every one of his years.

Sirius had been more than a soldier he'd commanded in the war against Voldemort. He'd been a friend, a colleague, a student, and a distant cousin. And now he was gone, without even a body to bury. There would be only an empty casket at the funeral.

Lucius ... he, too, had been a student, as Draco was now, as Abraxas had been before them. And like Sirius, he too, had been a distant cousin. Dumbledore knew that Lucius had made his choices, that he would need to face the consequences - Azkaban if he was lucky, execution if he was unlucky - but he remembered the fair-haired boy he had tutored in Arithmancy and Transfigurations, the boy who had taken such delight in Exploding Gobstones and Quidditch. A boy very much like Draco was now. Would it even be possible to stop Draco from following his father's path? Was it too late to rescue the boy?

Cornelius. Dumbledore took another sip of firewhiskey. Forty-year old single-malt firewhiskey ought to be sipped, not guzzled. He'd long been aware that Cornelius was an idiot who placed heritage above honor, who believed what he was told rather than investigating for himself. After Cedric Diggory's death, he'd been afraid that his friendship with Cornelius had been irreparably broken. Now he had a worse fear - that he would need to resign as headmaster and accept the ministerial position that had been offered to him so many times. He did not want to be minister, but the alternative was leaving an idiot in charge during a crisis.

And Harry. Dear, sweet Harry. Angry, hurt Harry. The boy had every right to be furious with him. Dumbledore wasn't sure when, or if, he'd calm down. Every teacher knew it was a mistake to have favorites, and yet, every teacher did. Harry was one of his, although he'd tried not to show it. Just as he'd tried not to let nepotism influence his relationship with the Boy-Who-Lived. He hadn't even told Harry that they were cousins, and far closer kin than he had been to Sirius or Lucius. His grandmother's maiden name had been Figalilly, just as James' mother's maiden name had been, although he would need to sit down with parchment and quill to work out just what their relationship was. He was too tired now to think straight, too tired to remember whether Harry's grandmother had been his grandmother's grandniece or her great-grandniece.

So much he hadn't told Harry, trying to protect him, trying to shield him from harsh truths and bitter futures. Maybe he'd made a mistake. No, no maybe, he had made several mistakes. And as he had once told Harry, being cleverer than most people, his mistakes tended to be correspondingly huger. He hoped it wasn't too late to correct them. He hoped that Harry would one day forgive him.

He hoped there was more firewhiskey in the bottle.

* * *

 **July 23, 1997**

Severus Snape mumbled the password and stumbled into the headmaster's office. Ignoring Fawkes and the portraits of past headmasters, he went to Dumbledore's liquor cabinet. He didn't wait for the cabinet to unfold itself; he reached in and grabbed the bottle of firewhiskey as soon as the cabinet had opened wide enough for his hand to fit inside.

It was probably unwise to drink firewhiskey after vomiting, but he needed something to wash the foul taste out of his mouth after his inaction. He had watched and done nothing as Charity Burbage was tortured and murdered. He couldn't help her without ... how did they put it in the James Bond movies he used to watch with his Muggle cousins? ... blowing his cover. And outnumbered, even if he had tried to help, they would have both died. There was no way he could have saved her, and by letting her die, he might have a chance to stop Voldemort. So he had stood there, and watched as a woman he'd eaten breakfast with for the past four years was murdered in front of him.

Snape refilled his glass- he'd drunk the first one too fast to taste it - and raised the glass in memory of Charity. He hoped her sacrifice was worth it.

* * *

 **June 30, 2013**

Minerva McGonagall sat at the headmistress' desk for the final time. She looked around the room, filled with knick-knacks, astrolabes, a Pensieve, trophies, two chess sets, books, more books, portraits of her predecessors, and still more books. She picked up a bottle of twenty year old Blishen's Single-Malt Firewhiskey and poured some into a brandy snifter. She looked around the office again. "I shall miss this place."

Hogwarts had been her life for so long. First as a student, then as an instructor, then Head of House, Deputy Headmistress, and for the last fifteen years, Headmistress. She was ready to retire, ready to enjoy her twilight years, but Merlin's beard, she would miss Hogwarts.

She turned slowly, looking at the portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses. "Thank you." McGonagall raised the brandy snifter in salute. "I should never have been able to manage without you."

"Nonsense, Minerva," the portrait of Dilys Derwent told her. "You've done a fine job."

"With your help," McGonagall insisted.

Heliotrope Wilkins's portrait smiled. "We girls need to stick together."

Phineas Nigellus Black snorted in his portrait. "We are duty-bound to assist the headmaster or headmistress of Hogwarts. A fine kettle of fish it would be if you and Dilys and Eupraxia only helped the headmistresses and Severus and Armando and Dexter and I only helped the headmasters."

In his painting, Ambrose Swott opened his mouth to protest. Before a fight could break out, Dexter Fortescue asked, "Have you had your portrait painted, Minerva?"

She nodded. "Yes, it's finished, and just waiting for the oils to dry completely."

"Good, good," Professor Fortescue approved. "Then you will be able to join us once Septima takes over."

"Oh, no. I've advised Professor Vector not to hang up my portrait for at least a year, perhaps two. She needs to establish herself, not lean on me for every little thing." She looked out the window and smiled at a fleck of red she saw in the sky.

Heliotrope had just a touch of lasciviousness in her voice. "Septima will have that big strong Charlie-boy to lean on."

"A Weasley as Deputy Headmaster. What is this school coming to?" Severus Snape asked disapprovingly.

"Charlie Weasley's been an excellent Care of Magical Creatures instructor, and I think he'll make a fine Deputy Headmaster." McGonagall watched as a red-gold bird flew to the window of the headmaster's office. "Hello, Fawkes."

The phoenix came through the window and landed on the chair behind the headmistress' desk. McGonagall poured the firewhiskey into his water bowl. She gently petted his feathers as he lapped it up. When he finished drinking, she picked up her carpetbag with her left hand, took hold of Fawkes' golden tail feathers with her right hand, and bid the portraits of her predecessors a final farewell. "I shall send you a postcard from Jamaica."

There was a flash of fire and the pair of them were gone.

* * *

 **Five Time the Headmaster of Hogwarts Drank Firewhiskey, and One Time the Headmistress Didn't**


End file.
